


Forbidden Fruit

by penumbra



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Kissing, Light BDSM, M/M, Metaphors, Temptation, just in case, mostly aziraphale thinks a lot and loves crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23606713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbra/pseuds/penumbra
Summary: Aziraphale is thinking about the Garden.About Adam and Eve and the Tree.He cards his fingers through Crowley’s hair. Apple red in the dying light, sun warm and lambent.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 227





	Forbidden Fruit

Aziraphale is thinking about the Garden.

About Adam and Eve and the Tree.

He cards his fingers through Crowley’s hair. Apple red in the dying light, sun warm and lambent.

Crowley noses against Aziraphale’s stomach. Squirming closer, he sighs. A darling, gravely noise that Aziraphale longs to hear again. He scratches Crowley’s scalp lightly, revels in the audible “affk”. A cherry on top of his sundae of delectable noises.

Crowley smears a sloppy kiss to Aziraphale’s belly. “Mmm,” he says, indulgent as you please. “’Lo.”

“Hello, dear.” Aziraphale’s voice is feather soft.

Adam and Eve were ashamed of their nakedness.

Crowley stretches, lackadaisical in Aziraphale’s plump lap. He looks up and offers him the most debauched of shit-eating grins. Wiggles his eyebrows. “Ssso.”

“Mm?”

They breathe.

Crowley’s eyes, Honeycrisp and Golden Delicious, drink Aziraphale in. Unabashed, his gaze as naked and needy as his body.

“What is it?”

“Wh...I...” Crowley stutters, somehow peaceably. “Just looking at you, angel.”

And, oh, but Aziraphale feels seen. Not the way Heaven sees him, like a mistake or a defect. Not like Hell sees him, an enemy, a minor threat. He feels seen like the stars are seen in an ever-expanding universe. He feels beautiful and multitudinous.

“I want you,” Crowley tells him quietly, leisurely. He takes Aziraphale’s hand in his—gently, gently—and guides it to his waiting lips. Mouths a kiss to Aziraphale’s palm. Winesap tongue tracing his life line, his heart line, both.

“Oh...” Aziraphale wonders that he can speak, though he would barely classify it as speech at all. More like a whimper.

Crowley sits up. Twists about, come-hither hips cocked and legs akimbo atop the bedsheets. Long and sinuous and Redlove ready. “I never not want you.”

Aziraphale’s insides somersault. A lazy crest and trough of feeling, and he lets it wash over him, protracted and sticky and honey-thick. He sinks under the tide of love, of intimacy, of pure and unbridled desire thrumming through him until he’s dripping sweet between his thighs. He restrains Crowley with trembling fingers, firespun hair coiling lovingly around his knuckles.

Crowley keens. He tilts his chin in supplication, welcoming the tender pull. His lips rosy and plush. His tongue on the edge of his Opal teeth. His pupils are fathomless, dark and deep. Aziraphale can see himself reflected in them. Can see himself inching closer, succumbing.

Crowley closes his eyes. Aziraphale’s shallow breath dances over his eyelashes.

 _Is this what it was like?_ Aziraphale wonders. _Right before Adam and Eve gave in to temptation?_

He devours Crowley’s mouth and he is unashamed.


End file.
